On Healing
by Designation
Summary: Recovery in the aftermath; a scene from the Phantom Troupe after they clean out the ant nest in Meteor City.


Shalnark is dragging his feet by the time they get back to their lair, and Feitan doesn't know why they didn't bunk down sooner. The kid is scraped up and worn down, muscles sore, and hobbling. They'd stopped briefly, sometime just before dark, to snatch Feitan a shirt to ward off the beginning-to-chill air, and a thin scarf to use as a sling – but other than that, they've been walking for hours, too wound up to stop. It's past time.

They return to the house they've been using for the past year, just outside the limits of what they call Meteor City proper. If you get far enough out, houses are a thing in some areas, which is more than you can say for anywhere on the interior. There is a cracked stone walkway, half dust, leading up to a none-too-sturdy front deck, and the front door isn't there at all, no hint as to why. There's a body rotting next to the doorway, fresh enough to act as a deterrent to any intruders. Machi and Nobunaga had dragged it there last week; there's old blood, mostly dried, smeared across what's left of the house's old siding and across the thinning wood of the deck.

"Someone move that," Feitan mutters as he crosses the threshold – it's not a bad scarecrow, as far as those go, but his chest aches when he breathes too deeply, and his head is starting to throb right between his eyes. The lingering smell is a bit too much right now.

Bonolenov moves to take care of it, no questions asked. Feitan wonders idly if it's because of the whole "interim leader" thing, but doesn't ask because he doesn't really care.

He surveys the main room once his eyes adjust, barely inside the doorway, just enough so that Phinks has to squeeze past him to get by. Feitan calls up a wisp of aura, about to give the house a quick en-check, but Phinks mutters, "I got it," before he's barely begun. Feitan scoffs, but lets him scope the place out. Phinks isn't known for his surveillance skills, since he tends toward the less subtle, but that's not because he doesn't have them, just that sensing intent is not the same as punching things.

With Phinks's grunted go-ahead, Feitan walks further into the room (the others filtering in behind him). He's headed for his corner of the room, going to drop himself there and sleep off this queen ant bullshit, when Shalnark, who is halfway to the threadbare couch already, says, "You should probably get someone to check on that arm first." He flops facedown onto the cushions, a cloud of dust puffing out to meet him, and continues, "No Machi. Ice, maybe?"

At least, that's what Feitan thinks he says, but where the hell would they get ice in Meteor City?

Shizuku pipes up, "I'll go try to find some anti-inflammatories," and turns and wanders back out immediately.

Phinks tells Kalluto to go with her to make sure she doesn't forget, and the boy, who hasn't said a word since they'd left the nest, slips back out into the night.

"Come on," Phinks commands, suddenly standing at Feitan's right. He waves Feitan toward the kitchen, a hand hovering behind him in an escorting sort of gesture that never connects. "Bono should have the generator running soon."

Locked in a basement cupboard with heavy doors and powerful nen-guards, the generator was a particularly inspired steal, making this lair a favourite among the current Troupe members. Under Danchou, most of their past haunts were lit by candlelight, which is the best for dramatic atmosphere, but when Shalnark's birthday rolled around a few weeks ago he'd demanded a generator. None of the Troupe normally celebrate their birthdays, if they even know them, except as an excuse for mayhem, and Shalnark is no exception – but each time the lights come on in this dark old place he's forgiven the extravagance by someone, even if they don't say it aloud.

Feitan hears the power kick in with a blinking sort of hum as he steps into the kitchen. Phinks flicks the overhead light on, and Feitan closes his eyes with a soft curse at the stab of light.

Phinks freezes for a moment.

Then he lets out a breath and continues into the room to rummage through the cupboards for whatever first aid supplies they might have.

The counters are covered in a thick layer of dust, finger marks and scrapes tracked through it from where things have been put down, moved, picked up, used. One of the cupboard doors has a crack down the middle and it's hanging half off its hinges. The floor is covered in grime, but not much debris – they may be none of them housekeepers, but the Troupe does have a vacuum. The table is covered in rings and splashes of old beer, and is surrounded by mismatched chairs.

It's onto one of those chairs that Feitan lowers himself. His movements are stiff and stilted, as he has to try not bend too much or jostle his aching ribs. He leaves the chair pulled out far from the table, concentrates on trying to keep himself ramrod straight and breathing easily.

He's pulled from his reverie by Phinks piling supplies on the table – mostly loose bandages and a bottle of liquor, a dusty half-bottle of rubbing alcohol, a wash cloth. Phinks eyes the pile for a moment when he's finished, appearing to be rethinking things. He glances at the sink (old but functional, cold water only, a couple of dirty plates at the bottom but nothing else around it), then picks up the rubbing alcohol, opens it, and pours some of it onto his own hands and rubs them together to clean them. That done, he tells Feitan to take off his shirt.

The sling is easy enough to flip off, but the long-sleeved shirt is another story. After a few moments of rustling and soft curses, Phinks moves to help, but Feitan's glare brings him up short and he leaves him to it. It's not like stubbornness is an unfamiliar trait in this group.

The requisite twisting jars his ribs, and the sleeve on his left arm is uncomfortably tight when he pulls it off, but Feitan feels a little better for doing it himself – he didn't need help with the would-be ant queen, he sure as hell doesn't need help with his own damn shirt.

Phinks doesn't make a comment, which is a smart move in Feitan's opinion, he just takes the shirt and throws it on the counter, then takes Feitan by the elbow and lifts his arm to look at the swollen and discoloured flesh above it. He palpitates around it as gently as he can, sticking to just above and below the worst of it, trying to see what kind of break they're dealing with. There's probably some bone displacement, really, given how the queen bitch had struck the limb. They'll have to set it as best they can – with Machi still away on a job it will be days, at least, before they'll see any real medical attention.

Painkillers would probably be good right now, but Feitan will have to settle for the rum on the table. He gestures for Phinks to hand it to him, and he does, but not without opening it for him first. It might be the pain or the exhaustion talking (or the memory of, "Fei, wanna trade places?"), but Feitan kind of wants to punch him for it. Instead hefts the bottle with his right hand and takes a deep pull of it.

"Oughta check your ribs first," Phinks says. "That'll give it a minute to kick in." And, he doesn't say, they probably should check for signs of internal bleeding before he thins out his blood with alcohol. It's probably fine. But you cough up one mouthful of blood and suddenly everyone has an opinion.

Feitan submits himself to more poking and prodding, a couple of painful deep breaths, and bandages wrapped around his torso.

Phinks turns away for a moment to look back to the main room. "Hey Bono, you got a sec?" he calls.

Feitan blinks – he didn't hear Bonolenov come in, but there his bandage-wrapped double is, lurking in the kitchen doorway. "Yeah?" he asks.

"Find me something for a splint?" Phinks gestures vaguely at Feitan's arm. Well, at Feitan's upper left arm, so perhaps more specifically than vaguely, and _damn_ _,_ Feitan is tired.

Bonolenov returns a few moments later with a couple of splits of some old boards under one arm, and someone's old t-shirt, which he's tearing into wide strips to wrap around them. Once he ties the wraps in place, he sets them all in a pile on the table and sidles off to lean against the wall, silent but not leaving.

Feitan takes one more swig from the rum before Phinks takes it from him, drinks a mouthful himself, and sets it aside. Now for the real fun to begin.

An hour goes by, filled with Phinks holding his hand, and not in any "nice" way, rather to haul on his arm and hold it there like he's trying to help him grow, and Bono pressing the damn boards to his swollen arm (hey that was _Feitan's_ t-shirt) as Phinks wraps bandages tightly around it, and more pulling, and some weird bandage twist designed for more _pulling_ , but like forever or whatever – at some point, there's a pause for breath, and Shizuku's hand on his damp forehead, and pills in his mouth – and generally more of Phinks's stupid voice than he usually hears, which is _saying_ something, and doesn't he _ever_ shut up, and "I thought you loved torture, Fei–"

And then it's just Phinks again, nudging him up out of the chair.

The generator must be going, because the lights in the kitchen are kinda dim.

"Come on, let's get you to bed," Phinks says, and he doesn't call him Danchou, which sounds good because he's not, they're just waiting, biding their time, so much time. "You need some sleep," Phinks continues, and he's pulling at him again, but it's not like before, and sleep sounds good too.

He's barely slept in months, and it's making him slow.


End file.
